Daybreak
by Play-Your-Song
Summary: Watson's first story has been published in Beeton's Christmas Annual! Holmes is NOT HAPPY. Written for Watson's Woes monthly prompt: New Beginnings. One-Shot. Gen.


**Daybreak**

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was the music that awoke me on that chill November morning in 1887. If one could call it music. The whole house resounded with the shrill, erratic notes of a violin, punctuated by staccato lows that crashed together with neither melodic nor rhythmic sense. Having had little sleep the night previous, it was still much too early for my liking – seven in the morning, to be precise.

With a groan, I resisted the urge to hold the pillow over my ears and pretend that I was living in an ordinary home. It would have been impossible for me to return to sleep with such a cacophony playing in the background. Instead, I left the warmth of my bed and hastened to dress, wanting to go downstairs and throttle my flatmate as swiftly as possible, then procure a cup of coffee.

"Enough, Holmes!" I cried as I stormed down the steps to the sitting room as quickly as I was able. "What the devil do you think you're doing?"

Sherlock Holmes was standing, staring out of our large bow window, as he played his violin. He had stopped when he heard me enter, and turned, the rising sun behind him throwing his tall silhouette into shadow. I squinted with bleary, sleep-deprived eyes in order to see him. He looked like the harbinger of justice, and I had the distinct impression that this time, I was the one who had been found wanting.

_"'His __**ignorance**__ was as remarkable as his knowledge."  
><em>  
>I started at the familiar words, recited perfectly back to me by the man I had written them for.<p>

_"Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics __**he appeared to know next to nothing**__. Upon my quoting Thomas Carlyle, he inquired in the __**naivest**__ way who he might be and what he had done. My surprise reached a climax, however, when I found incidentally that he was __**ignorant**__ of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should __**not be aware**__ that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to be to me such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.'"  
><em>  
>I froze, looking, I imagine, like a fish, with my mouth opening and closing, but making no sound.<p>

"My brother had **that** delivered to me the first thing this very morning," Holmes explained. It took me several seconds to realize he was pointing at something with his bowstring. I followed the direction he indicated until my eyes rested on the coffee table, where was placed the new issue of "_Beeton's Christmas Annual_."

My heart caught in my throat as I read the bold print on the cover of the magazine; the title of my freshman effort in fiction, "_A Study in Scarlet_." I had known the issue would be released that day; I had **not** expected Holmes of all people to obtain a copy so quickly. I supposed I had his brother, Mycroft, to thank for it. Although, I could see that Holmes was NOT HAPPY in the slightest.

"My dear Holmes," I began, for although his voice was calm enough, he was behaving with all the airs he took when detailing the evidence against a suspect in a criminal investigation. "You can't deny that you are even proud of your lack of knowledge in some areas that you judge as unimportant, for it gives you room, as you put it, to keep in mind all the data you need for your profession!"

"Yes, Watson, but I rather think you overstated my ignorance just a tad, don't you? I feel it was unnecessary for all of London to learn of my limits today."

"You are placing the emphasis on the wrong parts, entirely," I asserted. "You've completely overlooked every complimentary thing I have said about you!"

"A little vinegar spoils the pot, Doctor," said he, and I narrowly refrained from rolling my eyes in frustration.

"'_Holmes is a little too scientific for my tastes. It approaches to __**cold-bloodedness.**__ I could imagine his giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid... simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects._'" My friend's eyes darted meaningfully to the coffee pot on the dining table, then back to me. "I'd be careful were I you, Watson. You just never do know about those eccentric types, now do you? Who knows **what** you might find laced in your morning coffee!"

"Holmes, honestly," I stretched out my hands towards him in a gesture of innocence, "If for one second I believed half of what Stamford told me, I would be an insufferable fool. I could tell he was half-joking, anyway. I only included his statements to add a touch of drama to your character, for the enjoyment of the readers. A protagonist who is perfectly safe and normal is also terribly dull!"

"Humph," was his eloquent rejoinder. He stretched down his hand and flipped open the cover of the magazine with the tip of the bowstring, as if unwilling to actually touch the pages himself. "Then let us leave behind Stamford's questionable impressions of me for now, and stick with **your** reports."

I took a deep breath and made a straight course for the coffee pot. I felt certain I would need it now, if I hadn't before. I poured the first cup while Holmes proceeded.

_"'Ha! ha!' he cried,' clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a child with a new toy.'"_

That said, he looked up at me as if I had just insulted his dear mother. I gulped the coffee down as if it were a shot of brandy, and poured myself another.

"Now, Watson, after such a slanderous depiction, what criminal worth his salt will take me seriously?"

"Really, Holmes," I couldn't keep the exasperation from my voice, "That is **precisely** what you were like! You were so overjoyed at your new discovery, that you were positively bursting with pride! Like a first-time father showing off his newborn son – "

"I beg of you, Watson," cried he, "No more ornately embellished metaphors!"

I could not repress a sigh. I sat down at the table, sipping my second cup of coffee rather more slowly than the first to buy some time, for I could see that this would be a delicate matter.

"My dear man," I said, "I was highlighting your passion for scientific exploration. If the officers at Scotland Yard pursued their occupation with such enthusiasm, there would be a good deal less work for you, I should think! The conclusion of the case should speak for itself. Surely you know I only chronicle your cases because I hold you and your methods in the highest regard."

His nose wrinkled up as he considered my statement, "and you illustrated this by depicting me as some joyous, prancing child?"

I lowered my once-more emptied cup to the table with more force than was strictly necessary, for I felt the man was being exceedingly obtuse.

"Do you want to know what I thought when I first saw you in that laboratory, Holmes?"

"No, I'm not sure I do," He said simply. His shoulders seemed to droop, but he corrected himself in an instant, and turned to put his violin away, the sunlight illuminating his noble face as he did so. I felt my heart sink, for although my friend would never admit it, I was certain now that somewhere in his logical soul, his pride had been wounded, and I was to blame for it.

So, I took a bracing breath, and told him the truth.

"I had for over a year been in the dark, Holmes. The war was hellish, bloody, and cruel, and although the sun beat down on us, I hadn't truly felt it – not in my soul – not for the longest time."

My friend stilled, and he looked at me with interest, for I had never spoken of this before.

"Then, I was shot, and then I was ill, and by the end of it, I was like a specter; my world was a waking dream. I was shipped to London, thoroughly depleted of energy and motivation, and as is the case with so many who find themselves in such depressive straits, I was certain I would never be my old self again."

_"'There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence.'" _Holmes cited quietly.

I smiled, for such cheerless memories held little power over me, now.

"Well, then, I was introduced to a riddle of a man, who seemed to know everything about you at a glance. Far from being the cold-blooded scientist that my friend cautioned me about, this man seemed to radiate with life, experiencing all the highs and the lows of it. With little trouble, he pulled me into his trajectory, and before I knew it, I was standing in the light, myself."

My face flushed, and I found myself unable to look at my friend, so I attended to my third cup of coffee. When I glanced up again, Holmes was staring out the window, looking thoughtful. All irritation seemed to have fled him, and I breathed in relief.

"My dear Watson, it seems you are indeed a romantic soul. I doubt there's any way to cure you of it."

I laughed at that, and he flashed me a smile before turning to get his pipe.

"However, if it will make you feel better," I said mischievously, "When I write about this last case with your brother, I shall play up your more rational qualities. Would that suit? Sherlock Holmes, '_a brain without a heart, as deficient in human sympathy as he was pre-eminent in intelligence_.' That should give the criminal classes something to think about, shouldn't it?"


End file.
